


Chantez Pour Moi

by Loafy_Loaf



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, for my avid Phan of a Phriend, ok i'll stop, thank you phor being a phriend, travel down the road and back again, your heart is true you're a pal and a conphidant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 02:59:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5400335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loafy_Loaf/pseuds/Loafy_Loaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Modern Cafe AU) The romance writer leaves her actor boyfriend for 2 months to help plan her BFF's wedding. In Paris. Cue the strict waitress! Followed by the eccentric cafe owners! And finish it off with a French-speaking pianist with eyes that hold all the secrets of the world! (It feels one of her cheesier novels...except with less Viking kidnappers and more cafe pastries.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chantez Pour Moi

Flying is rather unappreciated, in her opinion. Many would complain about the quality of food, the lack of personal space, or the nauseous turbulence; some even go and deprive themselves of the experience, hiding behind the excuse that they were not willing to "plummet down to the ocean and to their deaths, thank you very much" (Heck, more people probably die from _food poisoning_ or something.)

Personally, Christine couldn't wrap her head around it. So, instead, she wrapped her scarf around her neck and continued on her merry travels.

Which, at the moment, she was currently late for.

"Hurry Raoul! We'll miss the plane!" she exclaimed, her luggage backpack rattling noisily behind her as it wheeled across the airport tiles. At the escalator, Christine grabbed the handle and started climbing up the already-moving steps, trying to make up for lost time.

Raoul was hot on her heels, which was an impressive feat considering the weight of the two bulky satchels strapped around his person. He had stopped trying to reassure his panicking girlfriend a while ago, finding that he much preferred breathing.

By the time they got to the gate, Raoul was bent over, clutching at his stitches as he glared at the brunette before him. Everyone was still sitting, waiting for the boarding time to be announced. "We still have another ten minutes!" he gasped angrily, "What was the point of sprinting?"

Christine, barely winded, merely smiled as she took a seat. "The early bird gets the worm~" she answered in a singsong voice, fixing her disheveled brown hair and lopsided glasses.

Still grumbling, Raoul plopped onto the seat next to her.

 _'Best to let him sulk for a bit,'_ Christine thought to herself, hiding an amused smile. Ignoring her companion for the present moment, Christine scanned the room with rapt interest.

A businessman in a suit was sitting in the farthest corner with a cup of Starbucks, frowning moodily as he read the newspaper. Christine smirked at the everyday sight. He could use some happy-go-lucky secretary to show him the world beyond stocks and overpriced coffee.

Next to him sat a boisterous Asian family, talking animatedly in their native tongue as the younger kids played a subdued version of tag. Amongst the large family sat a reserved teen, bobbing her head to the songs playing on her iPod as she disregarded the rabble. Christine bit her tongue. Oh my gosh, her hair was so pretty! Which didn't go unnoticed, if those glances from the boy in the other row were any indication. (Okay, this may sound creepy, but she would totally ship them.)

Sitting to her right was a couple, speaking in hushed tones. Their eyes seemed to be glued to each other's, ignoring the outside world. The young lady's eyes were watering with unshed tears as her lover(?) rubbed his thumbs across her knuckles reassuringly. From the corner of her eye, Christine could make out a cube-like bulge in his coat pocket. She placed a hand over her mouth to stifle her squeal as thoughts of white dresses and pretty cakes bombarded her mind's eye.

Cocking an eyebrow at his girlfriend's many expressions, Raoul bumped her shoulder. "Are you making up back stories for random strangers again?"

Christine grinned, denying nothing. As an author with a burning passion for writing, she honestly couldn't help herself sometimes.

Raoul rolled his eyes. "You do know that's creepy on all kinds of levels, right?"

Ignoring him, the young author grabbed his arm and pulled his face closer. "Do you see the couple sitting next to us?" she whispered.

A glance. "How do you know they're a couple? They could easily be relatives or best friends. Heck, he could even be a young father with a mature-looking daughter!"

Christine restrained herself from sighing. People can be so clueless. If the aura around those two didn't scream "romantic sunsets and Eskimo kisses," then she didn't know anything, anymore. "I'm telling you, those two are head-over-heels. I think he's even going to propose!"

Raoul looked back at his girlfriend, unimpressed. "Seriously? Marriage? You barely looked at them."

"Oh, just you wait. They're going to be engaged before first class even gets in line," Christine declared smugly, resting against her chair with her legs crossed.

He snorted. "Well, your word is law, so who am I to object?"

She had this unnerving knack, you see. Maybe it was a sixth sense, or her perceptive personality, or just plain dumb luck, but usually, Christine could easily dissect a personality or situation from her observations alone. She could pick up small things, like body language; the slight lift of the corners of the mouth, the posture against a chair, the light dancing across the glassy surface of the eyes: it all added up to one unique person with his or her own unique characteristics. To her, getting to meet a new person was like seeing another sliver of what the world has to offer. (Raoul, the nerd he was, liked to call it the "Sherlock Syndrome.")

Raoul leaned closer to the daydreaming Christine, resting his hand over hers. "…Do you really have to go? It's not too late to come with me to New York, you know…"

The young woman smiled softly, amused by his puppy dog eyes. "Raoul, you and I both know that my best friend will only get married once…hopefully."

"Still, I don't see why you have a leave for a whole two months!"

Christine took her hand from under his, preferring to fold her arms in exasperation. They had this discussion a million times since the day she had gotten the invite. …But since this was the last time they'll see each other in while, she might as well humor him. "Raoul, she's been through everything with me, so I think it's only fair that I be there for her. And "being there" includes making sure she doesn't get cold feet…or kill the florist."

"…Fine, fine. Whatever. Go to pretty little Paris with its pretty little buildings and find yourself a young strapping French guy so you can have a double wedding or something," Raoul huffed, mimicking her by crossing his own arms against his chest.

Christine froze for a moment before drawing her head back and laughing. "Oh Raoul, was that what was worrying you all this time?" The silence confirmed her suspicions, which only made her laugh even more. "Oh, you silly boy!" she cooed, ruffling his dark locks.

For someone who could more or less be classified as "the perfect guy," he sure experienced an amusing amount of jealousy. Raoul was polite, funny, understanding, and attractive…like a character straight from one of her romantic novels. As a matter of fact, the guy was off to the Big Apple to perform for Broadway.

Repeat: Broadway.

Sure, he may just be an understudy…but still! He was like every theater girl's dream!

His fretting was eventually cut off by the intercom, asking for the first class to form an orderly queue outside the gates. Letting all the annoyance/amusement melt from their faces, the couple stood up and embraced tightly.

"I'll miss you," Raoul murmured into her hair, his hug tightening slightly.

Christine pulled back her head from his shoulder to look into his pale blue eyes. "I'll try to give Meg's hand away as fast as possible. I promise."

Raoul grinned at her antics before closing the distance between them with a kiss.

After a few more whispered good-byes, Christine peeled herself away from her boyfriend and made her way towards the gate. Before she could get to the line, however, the bustling airport atmosphere was pierced with a scream.

Whipping around, Christine caught sight of the couple from before. The man was down on one knee, brandishing an open ring box. The woman was covering her mouth with her hands as tears streamed down her face, screaming "Yes, yes, yes!" before tackling the young man to the ground. Applause and a few wolf whistles erupted from the rest of the passengers.

Shooting Raoul a triumphant smirk, Christine tightened the scarf around her neck and made her way towards the plane.

* * *

 The door opened with a soft tinkle for the small bell overhead, followed by a wave of cold air. Christine entered the quaint café with chattering teeth and flushed cheeks, moving towards a table near a window.

Before she could even unwrap her scarf, a tall waitress approached her. "Good evening, and welcome to Le Fantôme Café. My name is Madame Giry, and I will be your server for this evening."

Christine eyed the waitress carefully as she accepted the menu. Madame Giry stood with a confident (though not exactly arrogant) air. From her ramrod posture and tight bun, the author couldn't help but get a rather "militant" vibe from the older woman. She seemed like someone who belonged in a strict library, not a small café with a handful of customers.

Ordering some hot chocolate (drinking coffee now would only screw her over for the early flower arranging tomorrow), Christine relaxed into her chair. As promised, she had been with her best friend every day to help with the ceremony. But, despite the hectic schedules and planning, the two women couldn't help but explore the city when they had some free time.

"Well, we _are_ in The City of Light," the bride-to-be had insisted, trying to rationalize their trip to the Eiffel Tower. "Who can blame us if we get bedazzled?"

And yes, the excursions to fancy buildings and parks and museums were fun, but she needed a breather. Hence her stop at the small coffee shop.

Resting her chin on her hand, Christine surveyed the room. It was filled with the usual, stereotypical patrons: a couple sharing a milkshake, an officer with a cup of liquid caffeine, an old man with his herbal tea. What caught her notice, however, were the two gentlemen laughing boisterously behind the counter. One man placed his hand on his rather plump middle as he chortled, his mustache dancing like a black caterpillar. The taller man chuckled with an open mouth smile, his graying hair bouncing. Their behavior and attire were different from the other employees, which suggested that they had a sense of authority in the establishment. Perhaps they were managers…or maybe even the owners.

Christine cocked an eyebrow. Now what was their story? Brothers? Childhood friends? Lovers…? Christine giggled as the two fussed over each other's bowties. They certainly acted the part.

The waitress returned with her drink, along with a small smile. A small, but genuine smile. Christine beamed in return, cradling the warm cup before taking a tentative sip. Mmmmmm.

She could get used to this. Perhaps it was the delicious cocoa, or the dim, warm lights, or maybe even the intriguing staff, but she couldn't help but feel at ease. The young author furrowed her eyebrows. Wait. There was something else. Tilting her head, Christine paused…and smiled again. The soft notes of a piano floated in the café, adding to the whole atmosphere. She twisted around, trying to spot speakers.

Instead, she found a pianist…right behind her. (How could she have missed that?)

He was behind an impressive grand piano (no, but seriously, how could she have missed that?), stroking the keys with obvious professionalism. He was fit. And tan. And dark. Dark clothes and dark hair and dark eyes that didn't look up to her's. And despite the sweet melodies he was playing, he wasn't smiling.

Christine took another sip. Intriguing indeed.

* * *

 Over a short amount of time, Christine made a good number of visits to the homey shop. By the third visit, the staff learned that she was Christine Daaé, famous author of many successful romance novels and maid of honor to a silly girl who still freaked about matching the napkins with the drapes. And that her favorite order was a cup of hot chocolate and a cinnamon roll.

"The usual?" Madame Giry asked, smiling at the exhausted brunette entering the shop. She returned it, along with a grateful "Yes, please."

The ever-present owners behind the counter noticed the tinkle of the familiar bell and beamed at their favorite (or so they say) customer. Firmin, being the shorter one, stood on his toes and waved excitedly, almost losing his balance. Andre, with his shining teeth and cool posture, gave her a friendly wink. All in all, they were probably some of the more interesting café owners in France, what with their witty banter and infectious laughter.

Sadly, they were not the married couple that they portrayed so well.

_'Though considering all that we've been through, we might as well be married,' Andre had chuckled, batting zero eyelashes at her rather bold question._

_'Our friendship has all the hardships, but none of the sexual satisfaction, I'm afraid,' Firmin sighed, quickly earning a smack to the head with a newspaper by a disapproving Madame Giry._

Speaking of which, the head waitress soon came back out with her order, setting the steaming drink and sweet-smelling pastry on her table. Before she could disappear back into the kitchens, however, Christine waved her over and pointed to the adjacent chair.

"It's still early, Madame Giry. Why don't you come sit down and chat with me?"

Madame Giry was a hard worker who usually preferred getting things done now rather than later; but with the combination of Christine's insistence and the lack of any other customers (they did just open, after all), she soon caved. Christine grinned. Anytime she could get the older woman to relax was a victory…even if she could never make her sit down for more than a few minutes.

From the handful of short conversations they've had, Christine had learned that Madame Giry used to be a dance instructor for the theatrical arts; one of the best, apparently, due to her strict training and no-nonsense attitude. Her temperamental hip, however, soon forced her into early retirement. Firmin and Andre, being old childhood friends, gave her a job at the café where she soon placed her organized planning skills to work. Nowadays, the café probably couldn't even run without her.

After the usual exchange of pleasantries and small anecdotes, Christine soon found her eyes wandering despite herself. They landed on the table across the room, focusing on the single occupant that was staring into his cup of coffee. At the one employee who was not fluent in English.

Erik. Erik the pianist.

She wasn't as subtle as she hoped, however.

"Why don't you just walk over there and introduce yourself?" Madame Giry asked, not one for beating around the bush, "Lord knows how long you've been eyeing the boy."

Christine looked at her incredulously before laughing.

Okay, so he was kind of dark and mysterious. The musician was an unreadable enigma to her with his folded hands, slouching shoulders, and tired face. She couldn't help herself from being a bit curious…but goodness, that knowing look on Madame Giry's face! She had to set the record straight.

"I have a boyfriend."

The waitress, to her credit, merely raised an eyebrow in surprise. Christine took the silence as an opportunity to explain. "Well…have you ever looked at someone and think: You seem so interesting, oh my gosh, I want to be your friend!" The writer waited for a beat, letting the hypothetical question sink in. "That's what I have. A strong desire for friendship. That is all."

The older woman smirked, before looking at her with an amused air. "My former statement still stands. Go say hello," she insisted.

"But…he doesn't speak English!" Christine was an open person, a stellar example of a social butterfly, in fact. But how far can you get in a conversation with just gestures?

"He knows enough to understand an introduction."

Before Christine could object (or at least drag the waitress to the table with her to be the translator/middleman), a tourist family noisily entered the shop.

The diligent employee swiftly rose up from her chair and made a shooing motion. "Go on. And quickly now, before he actually has work to do." With that said, she left with her notepad and pencil in hand.

Well then.

Reluctant as she may be, Christine was no coward. The slight challenge in the older woman's eyes had finally convinced her. Throwing back her head and draining the last trickles of her cocoa, she got up from her chair and made her way towards the adjacent table.

"May I sit here?" she asked slowly and exaggeratedly, as if that would help him understand. She pointed at the empty chair across from him.

The man looked up. Suddenly, Christine's mouth became incredibly dry.

Good heavens, his eyes. They were a dark coffee brown, so dark that it looked like an abyss of black. They were tired eyes that seemed to have seen too much, eyes that easily delved into her soul while still managing to give nothing away about their owner. Despite being the people-reader she was, Christine didn't know what to make of those haunted eyes. It was like…they contained all the sadness in the world…

The man remained silent for a few moments, giving her a once-over before nodding hesitantly.

Christine sat on the chair gratefully, glad to have avoided the chance of being awkwardly rejected. "My name…" she said, pointing to herserlf, "…is Christine Daaé. And you?" She gestured towards him, letting her eyes ask the question more than her words. She already knew the answer, of course, but proper etiquette demanded it.

The pianist looked at her warily. The silence grew, bordering near stifling, when he finally answered. "Erik."

The smooth baritone voice, with it's slight accent, ended the one word in a soft exhale. She restrained herself from squealing (slash swooning). She was actually talking (well, gesturing, really) with the French mystery!

As the morning wore on and faded into noon, Christine told him about who she was, what she was doing here, everything she loved about Paris, all in wild gestures and doodles she made on a napkin. It was slow going, but nice. He was a good listener, even if he didn't understand half of her words. In the cheerful buzz of the somewhat one-sided conversation, neither of them noticed the smile on a certain waitress's face or the knowing look that was shared between the two café owners.

* * *

 "Okay, spill. Who is it?"

Christine looked up from her engaging round of "Two Dots," noticing the questioning look on her best friend's face. "What?"

"Don't play dumb with me!" she scoffed in reply, sucking in her stomach as the sales lady stuck in another pin.

Christine sighed, slumping deeper into her chair. They were out shopping for wedding dresses, and that girl probably tried on two dozen of them already. Apparently, they were pretty, but not perfect.

Ugh. Bridezillas

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Meg."

The wife-to-be frowned, stiffly placing her hands on her hips. "I know that you know that we both know what I'm talking about, Miss Daaé." When she got a blank look in return, Meg rolled her eyes. "Who's the man that's got you glowing like a pregnant mother?"

"Oh my gosh! Meg!"

"Oh hush now, we both know I could come up with worse."

Christine huffed. "I still have no idea what you're talking about. Raoul is in New York, remember?"

Meg made a "duh" face. "And Paris is filled with tons of hotties, remember?"

"Oh, not this again." Meg held an immediate dislike towards Raoul, which was somewhat reciprocated. When asked, she would claim that he was far too chatty, too vain, too sheltered, too…well…boring. _'And my God, his hair!' Meg had groaned, after unsuccessfully trying to set her up with a (surprise) blind date, 'I swear, I'm going to throw a pair of scissors at him or something.'_

To her credit, she did try to remain civil whenever he was in the room…even if it were only for her best friend's sake.

Meg clucked her tongue at Christine, twisting this way and that as she looked in the mirror. "I'll keep pushing the subject until you finally admit I'm right…as always. Now, who's the guy?"

An image of the café pianist flashed in her mind. Wait…what? "…There is no other guy," she insisted, wondering why she would think of Erik at a time like this.

Meg caught the slight hesitation, but decided to let it go for now. She twirled around, finally facing her best friend. "So, what do you think? It's nice, I guess, but I think it could use a bit more-"

"You look fine. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Ravishing, even. Every guy will want you, and every girl will want to be you. Yada yada yada, can we go back to the hotel now?"

"You know what? Just for that, I'm trying on another one." Christine groaned, dropping her forehead on the armrest. "I swear, when I get married, I'm making it a _requirement_ that _everyone_ wears _pajamas_."

Meg snorted, lifting her arms as she was helped out of the dress. "Oh, that'll be quite the scandal. Imagine the headlines: 'The Female Nicholas Sparks Ties the Knot in Tweety Bird Jammies.' Ha!" She smirked as the young writer rolled her eyes. "…You know…I still can't believe I'm getting married before you of all people."

As a matter of fact, everyone who knew them was shocked. Silly, immature Meg was actually getting hitched before the charming, bright Christine? The only person who seemed unfazed was Christine herself. "We've been over this, Meg. It's too soon for me…and being a writer of romance doesn't automatically give me the world's most interesting love life or anything."

"The nerve of you! To deprive your fans of all that juicy gossip! For shame!"

"Yeah well, I'm sorry for not having some saucy, forbidden love affair with my barbaric Viking kidnapper. Some people have to work for a living."

Meg threw her head back in laughter. "It's moments like these that make me proud that I was your first Twitter follower. ...Quick, tweet that right now! You might end up on Buzzfeed!"

* * *

 "Bonjour!" Christine greeted cheerfully, already draping her scarf on the back of the chair. The quiet musician looked up from his coffee and offered her a small, subdued smile. By now, he was already getting used to her presence. "Bonjour."

Making herself comfortable on "her" chair, she looked at his order and gave him a questioning look. "Why do you always get the same thing every morning?" she asked, pointing at his cup. When Erik only furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, she repeated herself in fewer words. "Why…same?"

The pianist nodded in understanding and gave her a smirk. "Je ne bois pas des choses douces."

Christine also nodded, despite having no idea what he was saying. Perhaps he was just a man of routine. Picking up the café menu that they kept wedged behind the napkin dispenser, she scanned the list. "I think…I'm going to try…something new today," she replied, talking slowly in hopes that he would catch some of the words. Erik glanced at the menu and cocked an eyebrow, as if to say, "Yeah, I figured."

As she weighed her options, the two fell into a comfortable silence, the only sound coming from Erik's drumming fingers. These silences were common among them, though not unappreciated. It may have had something to do with the language barrier, but it was still quite surprising how relaxed they were around one another. Neither could deny the fact that these meet ups were something that they both looked forward to.

Clearing her throat to get her companion's attention, she pointed to something on the laminated paper. "Should I try the tarte tatin?"

Like most French cafés, the French word had a little English blurb next to it, describing the food in order to cater towards tourists. But asking an actual employee's opinion was probably a safer bet. …Well that, and Christine couldn't help but want to chat.

Looking at the item she was pointing to, Erik wrinkled his nose. "Ne pas l'obtenir. Les cuisiniers brûlent toujours tarte tatin."

Again, she had no idea what he was saying; but from the look on his face and the tone of his voice, she figured that it probably wasn't that great. "How about the…uh…choux à la crème?"

Erik rested his back against his chair and regarded her with an unreadable expression. Again, he smirked. "Vous pourriez aimer ça ... si vous aimez les choses sucrées."

The author stared back at him, as if hoping a translation would appear on his face. …Nothing. "So…is that a yes," she showed him a thumbs-up, "…or a no?" She twisted her wrist and made a thumbs-down. Erik chuckled and gave her a thumbs-up. Christine smiled as well, feeling as accomplished as an explorer successfully translating hieroglyphics.

"Back again?" a bored voice drawled behind her. Twisting her body around, the smile on her face grew tight-lipped. "Hello, Carlotta. It's…nice to see you again."

The plump redhead sighed, as if dealing with her presence alone was draining. "Yeah, okay…though we all know why you're really here," she muttered.

Christine narrowed her eyes. "Sorry? I didn't quite catch that."

Carlotta looked at her, unfazed. "Nothing, ma'am. Can I take your order?"

The author looked at the rude waitress with thinly veiled distaste, but said nothing. "Can I have the choux à la crème?" she asked, probably butchering the pronunciation.

Carlotta looked up from her notepad and raised an eyebrow. "The cream puffs?"

Oh. So that's what they were. "Yes. Those, please. And I wou-"

"Anything else?"

Christine had to pause for a moment to rein herself in before she said something too rude. "Yes. I would also like a cup of green tea," she replied. (To alleviate the headache you're giving me…)

The waitress looked at her with the same bored facial expression. Christine had no doubt that if she were an American teenager, she'd be snapping on a piece of gum. "You sure about that?"

"Yes. Yes, I am." Hopefully, being curt would end the conversation faster. Carlotta nodded slowly and made her way to the kitchens. 'Thank God.'

When she finally turned back towards Erik, the pianist was donning an amused look. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I swear, I have absolutely no idea how she gets to work at such a nice place like this."

Considering how fast she was talking, Christine couldn't help but be surprised when he responded. "Firmin….niece."

She gaped. "…Really?" How could someone so jolly be related to someone so…rotten?

Erik leaned over the table. "Ne vous inquiétez pas. Je pense qu'elle est tout à fait la **diva** , aussi bien," he whispered, winking as if it was their little secret.

Catching the word "diva," Christine could only giggle. She really was quite the prima donna; thankfully, the redhead was behind the cash register reading fashion magazines more often than not. Carlotta as a full time waitress would have been bad for business.

Erik's grin only widened, as if he could read her thoughts, and he continued to tap his fingers against the table. Listening to the rhythmic taps against the polished wood, Christine suddenly straightened up in her chair in realization. "Oh yeah, Erik! I've been meaning to ask you something."

Taking in her body language, the musician raised an eyebrow. "…Yes?"

She grinned. "I know you usually don't take requests, but is it okay if you sing a song while playing?"

She got a confused look in return. "…Requests? ….Play?" he asked, his French accent clearly evident. "…Comme la marelle?"

"Yeah, you know. Like playing an instrument?" she replied, miming his piano playing by wiggling her fingers. Christine pointed to the grand piano behind him for good measure.

"Ah…do…piano?" he asked hesitantly.

She nodded excitedly. "Yeah! While singing!"

Erik stared at her for a few moments before shaking his head in utter bewilderment. Christine sighed. She was really hoping to avoid this.

"You know? Singing?" she repeated. The author placed a dramatic hand on her chest and held out a pretend goblet, la-laing a quick scale. "Like that, only better," Christine grinned, her embarrassment finally catching up to her. If that burning was anything to go by, she was certain her cheeks and ears were an impressive scarlet.

Erik stared at her for a few heartbeats, his face that frustratingly blank slate again. "…Votre voix est celeste," he finally exhaled, smiling widely.

Now, Christine knew a compliment when she heard one. That, along with the fact that he was beaming brightly, made her trade in her embarrassment for flattery.

"…Vous voulez que je chante, c'est exact?" he asked. "…Come."

The French enigma rose from his seat, beckoning to Christine as he made his way towards the piano. He lifted the cover and ran his hands over the yellowing keys, a delicate caress. He tested a few notes before relaxing his posture. He was in his element now.

Letting his fingers float over the keys, he began to sing.

And as his voice rose and fell, as the soft notes flowed with remarkable ease, Christine felt her skin grow goosebumps and the hair on the back of her neck rise on end. The world melted away until all she could see was Erik and his instrument.

This was music at its finest. Erik wasn't just a musician. He was music. Pure art condensed into a human form. And in this moment of pure admiration and exhileration, Christine came to a disturbing realization: she was treading dangerous waters. And she couldn't find it in herself to care.

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be longer, but let's leave it hanging because I'm evil and I can. :D Firmin and Andre were so fun to write lol. 
> 
> All the French was provided to you today by: Google Translate. Which is known to be horribly inaccurate. If so...my bad.


End file.
